Other Side of the World
by kates1304
Summary: Connie and Ric
1. Chapter 1

A lazy sun rose over the beach, bathing the expanse of deserted sand and deceptively cool water with a lingering red glow, like flames from the sky that licked the ground, scorching it and leaving their mark. Even though the sun had come up, there was a crisp chill in the air that was at odds with the apparent warmth of the surroundings; it was unseasonably cold for mid September in a supposedly hot climate. CNN blamed global warming and greenhouse gases, the woman next door blamed the unsafe disposal of fridges and aerosols fifteen years earlier but the woman who stepped from her small condo on the beach and shivered at the unexpected coldness suspected it was more to do with fate than anything else. She had moved here partly because it was hot, partly because it was glamorous and partly because she had been offered a job that was hard to turn down at Los Angeles Central Hospital. The job had appeared too good to be true when it was presented and six months into her contract, she had to admit that it was. Really it was nothing more than long hours for less pay than she received in England and little respect from her colleagues, unimpressed by some 'foreign bitch' being promoted above natives who had worked at the hospital since they graduated. The general feeling was that she should have stayed in England rather than coming to America and taking the jobs that they felt should rightfully be theirs. The supposed glamour of Los Angeles she had quickly discovered to be a myth; while Beverley Hills and Hollywood were undoubtedly glamorous, they bore little resemblance to the unpleasant area of downtown LA that housed the hospital and her small home that seemed a massive step down from the veritable mansion that she had shared with her husband in England. While she had visited the bright lights of Hollywood on the occasional day trip, in general, glamour was in even shorter supply here than it had been in Holby. Now it seemed that even the weather had been a lie – in the past six months she had experienced only unseasonable wintriness and uncomfortable heat, none of the balmy comfortable warmth that she had been promised. Even though she was no stranger to disillusionment, the disappointment she felt had been crushing and even more so, she felt regret. She had sacrificed a lot to come out here; a job that she enjoyed in a hospital that had been her first and last great love, a man who cared for her and loved her every little foible and a house which had an excess of everything she had ever dreamt of. In the three months before she had left she had been as close as she had ever come to being truly happy and foolishly, she believed that by taking her 'dream job' in America, things could only be improved. Now she realised that she had been completely wrong – she had tried to improve on near perfection and had ended up almost as unhappy as she had been in her marriage. Loneliness, dissatisfaction and disenchantment; she had it all in spades, just has she had for the fifteen years that she had spent beside a man who had turned out to be the most corrupt man ever employed by the Department of Health.

Jogging briskly down the rickety wooden stairs she stepped onto the sand, immediately feeling the grains push into her feet, driving her toes apart and chafing the soft skin of her heel as she groped around in the small silk sports rucksack slung over her shoulders and extracted a pair of trainers that matched the exact blue of the rucksack and coordinated perfectly with the navy velour tracksuit that she wore. Finally she produced a pair of wrap around sunglasses with metallic blue frames, slid them onto her narrow face and started to run along the beach, just as she did every morning. Back in Holby she had loathed all exercise that involved clothes and doing more than simply lying on your back and moaning in the right places but since coming to America and living in a society even more obsessed with appearance than the plastic surgery patients of the Hadlington she had started to enjoy exercise. There was something strangely liberating about propelling yourself along a vast expanse of sand while everyone else slept soundly in their beds; about feeling the wind rush through your hair and remembering for the first time in years what if felt like to be truly alive. At first she hadn't been able to run a great distance – although she was slim and toned this was achieved through the strategic neglect of food and the use of toning tables rather than exercise – but over the past six months she had built it up, getting up earlier and running further until now she found herself running for three miles both morning and evening leaving her exhilarated and exhausted respectively. Now, the hour and a half she spent running had gone from being a necessary evil to stop all the perfect blonde clones looking down on her with disgust to her favourite part of the day. Running indulged her competitive side as she constantly strived to run faster and further than she had before. Her hour and a half running was a time for her to reflect on her life and the mess that she had made of it without having time to stop and wallow in self-pity. A time for her to remember the life that she had left behind and mourn for it without having time to cry. A time to wish that she could turn back the clock so that she had never signed the three-year contract that felt like a prison sentence. So that she could go back to Holby. So that she could go back home.

An hour and a half later she crashed into the kitchen, hands pressed to her knees and back arched as she gasped for breath, having managed to run two blocks further than she had before – a personal best. Eventually she managed to overcome the cramp that gripped her legs like a vice and stagger to the sink where she snatched a glass from the draining board and filled it with icy cold water which she drained before pressing the cool glass gratefully to her cheek. It might have been chilly outside but after her run she was as hot and sticky as if she had spent a day in a car without air conditioning in the height of summer. Dropping to her knees, crippled by the muscles of her legs crying out in protest at her overexertion, she crawled to the bathroom and switched on the shower, lying on the cool tiled floor as she waited for the water to warm up sufficiently to sooth her aching body without making her any hotter than she already was. Pulling herself to her feet she stepped beneath the blissful water and felt her body relax momentarily before stiffening, a sure sign that in the last block she had pushed herself too far. Perhaps she had overdone it a bit but at the time she had been sure she could handle the extra few metres and she had been virtually at her front door by the time she had realised her mistake.

Emerging from the shower she looked in the mirror, as she did every morning, and with every other morning, she grimaced. It was undeniable that she looked good – better than she had for years in fact now that she sported the healthy glow of a natural tan and a more athletic figure that even she had to admit, suited her – but as she looked in the mirror she saw only the imperfections. The thin, silvery scar that sliced across her midriff and bore a constant reminder of her loss. The jagged scar across her left wrist that filled her with shame as she recalled how she had sustained the injury and how much worse she had made it by prying the wound apart over and over again in attempt to punish herself and her husband for crimes that she could barely even recall. A more recent complaint about her reflection was her breasts; they weren't quite as pert as they had once been and she made a mental note to discuss the possibility of some kind of lift or augmentation with a plastic surgeon who she occasionally bumped into at work. She didn't like the man – he was unscrupulous and obsessed by cosmetic perfection at any cost – but she had to admit that he was a genius whose every patient was a masterpiece by the time he had finished with her. For a long time she gazed in the mirror, surveying her reflection with dissatisfaction but eventually she tore her eyes from the mirror with a disgusted grunt and dressed herself briskly in a white suit with a black vest top, the polar opposite of what she would have worn in Holby but far more practical for the often sticky climate which she now lived in.

Finally, three hours after she rolled out of bed, grumbling at her alarm, she was ready for work. Grabbing a banana and an apple from the bowl of fruit in the kitchen and stuffing them into her bag to eat on the train she didn't break her stride to the front door, which she opened, breathing in a deep lungful of sea air and smiling contentedly. While her life out here might have its faults – and the faults were legion – it also had advantages and stepping out onto the beach in the morning when she left for work was one of them. Taking the stairs in small, perfectly even steps she greeted the postman with a jaunty wave and took from him the pile of letters – doubtless bills as this was the only mail that she ever received, the few people in England who she kept in touch with having long ago reverted to the hassle-free medium of email. Walking the brisk two blocks to the station she flicked through the mail, stuffing the predictable bills and flyers into her bag and conveniently placed litterbins before stopping and staring at a small, handwritten envelope postmarked England. Even before she opened it or analysed the handwriting she knew exactly whom it was from and at that moment time seemed to stand still. Peripherally she was aware of people moving past her in slow motion, as if moving through viscous liquid but she was too absorbed in staring at the letter to pay them any attention. Eventually she started to move, turning on her heel and moving briskly back towards her house, already rooting through her bag for her mobile to break the habit of a lifetime and call in sick. She didn't want any distractions while she read the letter that she had spent six months waiting and hoping for and she knew that she wouldn't last the day without succumbing to temptation and opening it. Whatever it was that he had finally plucked up the courage to say to her, it couldn't and wouldn't wait.

The kitchen was cool as she stepped inside and laid the envelope reverently on the marble breakfast bar before hopping up onto a stool so she sat in front of it, her hands resting on the brown paper as if in worship, a single finger tracing the letters written in familiar, virtually illegible scrawl. Finally after months of being on tenterhooks every time the postman ran, it was here. Finally he had responded to the numerous cheery postcards and letters that she persisted in sending him in the hope that one day he would overcome his pride and get in touch. It seemed today was the day that she had been waiting for. Feeling absurdly nervous she picked up the envelope again and toyed with the raised left hand corner of the flap, no longer sure that she wanted to know what he had to say to her; perhaps he had been waiting all these months to find a way to tell her to get out of his life, leave him alone and stop writing to him. Perhaps it would be bad news that had driven him to write – she had heard on the grapevine that life had not been kind to him since she had left – or perhaps as she hoped, he was writing because finally his pride had allowed him to admit that he missed her as much as she missed him and wanted to speak to her but didn't have her number or email address in the states.

Eventually she took a deep breath and ripped the envelope open, employing the 'band aid' philosophy that it would be easier if she got it over with quickly and speed would dull any pain that she felt. Tipping the contents of the envelope in front of her she felt disappointment flood her body before tightening in a vice-like grip around her heart. Far from the affectionate sentiments that she had hoped for, the contents of the envelope were nothing more than some left over hospital business that he had clearly been given the job of forwarding. There were pay slips, tax forms and various other things that she had no interest in but there wasn't so much as a post it note from him. Tears of disappointment rolled down her face, falling in dull splashes on the pages in front of her, blurring the ink and rendering the words of the Inland Revenue illegible. Eventually she threw the envelope aside and reached for the phone, knowing what she had to do.


	2. Chapter 2

As he stepped into the musty warmth of his bedsit he felt the headache that had been niggling in the back of his neck all day assert itself with a vengeance. It had been a terrible day at the hospital with the victims of a coach crash stretching the under resourced hospital to its limits and causing him to work an extra five hour shift, just to help clear the backlog. As if that weren't enough, when he finally escaped at midnight and started the thankless journey home he found that once again, his car had a flat battery and in the absence of anyone to jump start the car he thrust his hands into his pockets and trudged to the bus stop, hankering after the days when he could afford AA membership or indeed, a car that didn't break down every five days. At gone midnight there were unsurprisingly few buses, although allegedly there was a night bus that ran once an hour so resentfully, he called a cab and made a mental note to deny all knowledge to his creditors.

Pushing open the door to the kitchen, the cheap plywood door gave an ominous creek that made him think that a call to the landlord would soon be in order and he saw the red light on the answer machine winking smugly at him. Once again he wondered why he kept the machine that gave him nothing but trouble – generally he didn't want to speak to whoever was calling and avoiding them was a bonus. The exception to the rule was Jess and she always called his mobile anyway so there was little advantage in knowing who had called in his absence and being forced to return the call. Even so he reluctantly pushed the button and froze at the well-known voice filling the room. Of all the people he'd expected to hear from, it hadn't been her – after six months of nothing more than the very occasional post card filled with cheery statements of how well her new life was going, he certainly hadn't expected her to start leaving messages on his answer machine. Especially not messages whose main aim seemed to be to thank him for something that to his dismay he had recently found fell under his job description. Despite this, he found himself listening to it over and over again;

"_Hi Ric, it's Connie here" _as if he hadn't known in the first syllable who was calling _"I'm just calling to thank you for the tax forms and pay slips you forwarded – I really appreciate it. Perhaps I'll see you next time I'm in England?' _a nervous pause followed the question which seemed rather rhetorical – whether or not she saw him was down to her and he had long since given up on the illusion that he had any control in their so-called relationship _"Anyway, must dash – I'm running late for work and I'll miss the train. Bye" _followed by the prolonged beep of the tone that told him that the message had come to an end and then the shorter beep of his pressing play and starting the message over again.

If he had listened more carefully, perhaps he would have seen beyond the words to the message that lay beneath the speech that she had spent hours carefully preparing as she persistently punched in his number and then hung up as her nerve failed her. Perhaps he would have heard the barely perceptible tremble to her voice beneath the veneer of confidence that she battled to present throughout the message. Perhaps if he had listened to more than just the words he would have realised that she was as unhappy as he was and taken some comfort from the fact that perhaps their relationship had not been as one sided as it had felt when she left him. Instead he felt only bitterness that she seemed so much happier away from him than she was when they were together. The message served only to reinforce his suspicion that he was, in fact, no good for her.

Momentarily he considered returning her call; at two thirty in the morning in England it would be half six in California and if he called now then in all likelihood she would be out and he wouldn't have to speak to her, instead getting away with a short but to the point message on her answer machine before he could forget her again, or at least pretend that she was forgotten. Alternatively he could dig out the bottle of aged whiskey that he had won at the recent hospital raffle that he had entered despite Diane's disapproval. The whiskey, he felt, represented a definite upwards turn in his fortunes – for once in his life he had won something rather than simply winding up poorer for taking a gamble. Surely that had to be a good sign. Diane and Jess disagreed, insisting that the raffle represented his first step on a slippery slope back to addiction but he preferred to think of it as an auspicious sign.

Quickly he decided on the whiskey as the less painful, or at least less immediately painful, course of action and poured himself a large measure, downing it in one swift mouthful and shuddering as he felt it scorch a blazing trail along his tongue and down his throat to his stomach. Then he sat back, basking in the warm glow that the alcohol gave him and wondering why it was that he still felt cold, empty and lonely. For a man with such a vast extended family, he seemed to spend rather a lot of time alone and increasingly he was finding that he dreaded the time that he spent outside work. After all, there was nothing that made him crave the rattle of the roulette ball more than a night spent alone with nothing for company but the TV.

He had felt this way before but what had saved him before was the cause of his current misery. Almost a year ago she had bought him back from the brink in one single, particularly fantastic session in bed. Of course it had taken more than that to even begin to solve the problems that weighed him down but in that one act, she had reminded him that life was worth living and that he was still capable of experiencing enjoyment. Over the weeks that passed he had fallen for her, harder and faster than he had fallen for anyone before and she knew exactly how he felt about her. For a short time he had allowed himself to entertain the rather pleasant fantasy that she felt the same way about him but his illusions were quickly shattered when she came into his office bubbling with excitement and announced that she had been offered the job which she had spent her entire career working for. He had been thrilled for her until she revealed the snag; the job was in America and it was a single seat that had been booked on the plane. She hadn't even had the courage or courtesy to tell him outright that she was moving away, instead announcing that she was leaving two days before her flight, making it abundantly clear that it would be inappropriate for a man who she saw as little more than a casual lay to join her. She had told him in slightly patronising tones that their liaison had been fun while it lasted and then she turned and walked out of the office, not even glancing back at him. It was this view of her – the backside swinging slightly as she strutted away from him, bouncing jauntily on her heels – that he carried in his mind. He couldn't bring himself to remember the good times that they'd had together – the days when she had slept in his arms or the time when they made slow, sultry love in every room of her house, a final insult to the man whose lawyers were forcing her to sell it as part of a divorce settlement. All he could remember of her now was the final sting of her betrayal and the way she looked as she walked away from the final time.

He was four glasses of whiskey down by the time he finally plucked up the courage to pick up the phone and return her call, wincing as he tried to decipher the hastily scrawled digits where he had written down her phone number earlier in the evening. Slowly he punched in the numbers and heard the familiar clicks of the international call connecting as he stretched his legs in front of him and shut his eyes, preparing to leave a short message on her machine and then fall asleep. Eventually the ringing stopped and was replaced by a crackling line and then a familiar voice that lacked its usual edge of hardness and confidence;

"_Hello" _he froze for a moment, waiting for the answer phone to continue with the message, then praying that Connie had behaved completely out of character and recorded a stupid message which led the caller to believe and they had got through before mocking them for their stupidity. It was only when the voice repeated a second, more impatient _"HELLO?"_ that he was forced to admit that he had miscalculated in his plan to call while she was at work. Panicked he slammed the phone back in the cradle, staring at it as one might a ticking time bomb for a moment before standing and articulating a single, unslurred word; fuck.


	3. Chapter 3

It was when the phone started to ring a monotonous siren that she realised she was sitting on the sofa wearing an evening dress and staring in open mouthed outrage at the phone. There was no doubt in her mind about the prank callers identity – she had heard his gasp of horror when he got through to her rather than her answer phone and she heard the muttered profanity as he slammed the phone back in it's cradle. It surprised her. They may not have parted on the best of terms – he was clearly hurt at being cast aside in favour of her job in America – but she had thought that by the time she boarded the plane he had gotten over his irritation. He had driven her to the airport and kissed her goodbye in the departure lounge, waving cheerfully as she turned back and took one last look at Holby before descending the steps to the plane. When she had looked back, it had been his wistful smile that she had seen and taken with her, yet he had not had a civil, or for that matter hostile, word for her since her plane had taken off. Perhaps he had been hoping right up until the last minute that she would change her mind and stay with him and it had taken until he realised that she wasn't going to change her mind for the bitterness to set in but it had never occurred to her until today that he felt such resentment towards her.

Eventually the piercing ring issuing from the phone forced her to place it back in the cradle and she stood up, taking in her reflection in the large metal-rimmed mirror that sat over the mantle piece and flinching. When he had called she had been almost ready to leave and join the other senior doctors of the hospital for a pre-dinner drink, revelling in how easily she had been accepted into the men's club. She had dressed to kill, wanting to portray the image that she was the best of both worlds – the intellect and attitude of a man with the raw sex appeal of an extremely unprincipled woman. If they saw her now they would see her has little more than an emotionally unstable woman and she would be relegated to the legions of women consistently overlooked as the men believed that before long she would throw it all in and make babies. She had worked hard to shed that misconception and it wasn't a label that she wanted back. In a slight panic she realised that the car was due in less than five minutes leaving her little time to repair the damage to her obliterated eye make up. She couldn't even fix it in the car because one of her colleagues had insisted on picking her up and accompanying her to the ball. She had protested strenuously, not especially wanting to associate herself with one of the sleaziest men she had ever met but he had worn her down, refusing to take no for an answer and pestering her at every turn until out of sheer irritation she had agreed. It had got him off her back but now she had to put her money where her mouth was and do it with make up running inelegantly down her cheeks and into her cleavage. It was not a good look and no matter how much she scrubbed her cheeks with her expensive cleanser she couldn't budge the grey streaks of mascara.

'Fuck' she muttered as a cheerful fanfare of the doorbell heralded his arrival 'Just a minute' she added as an afterthought, finally managing to remove the final stubborn streaks of make up from her cheeks and quickly wielding her mascara again before eying herself in the mirror with dissatisfaction. She looked far from perfect but with a tantalising flash of her thigh and some sparkling conversation they wouldn't be writing her off just yet.

'You look…' he paused for a moment, taking in the plunging neckline of the backless black dress that she had selected for maximum attention before weaving his eyes down her body, his gaze lingering on the killer heels that encased her feet and sparkling, jewel coloured toenails 'sensational'

'Thank you' she replied graciously, suspecting that from the neck down he was telling the truth but her face was a different story – she knew that her make up was still a mess and immediately compensated with a dazzling smile and an utterly gratuitous flash of her cleavage as she dipped to climb into the limousine 'and thank you for picking me up tonight. It's very kind of you'

'It's my pleasure' he stated silkily, one hand weaving behind her, resting on the bare skin in the small of her back as the driver pulled away from the house 'Always a good idea to arrive with a beautiful woman on your arm' he added with a smile which faltered slightly as she scowled at his miscalculated comment 'and when she has brains as well as beauty…' he finished lamely and she nodded, reluctantly conceding the point for the sake of a bearable evening.

'So, what are your thoughts on the ICU refurbishments? I mean their well within our means but…'

'Connie, I didn't invite you for a drink before the ball so we could talk shop; we spend quite enough time doing that at work. Tonight is about letting our hair down, having a drink and getting to know one another properly'

'There was me thinking tonight was about raising money for orphans in Brazil' she retorted caustically, crossing her legs away from him and gazing crossly out of the window, well aware that he was checking out her backside encased in the tight black dress.

'Clearly that too Connie, but if we get to have fun while doing it then so much the better, eh?' he slid along the seat, replacing his hand in the small of her back as she turned back to him, a small smile playing across her face as she pointedly placed her hand on top of his and removed it, placing it hard down on the leather seat.

'I suppose that depends on your definition of fun, doesn't it Joshua' she stated coldly, her eyes making it abundantly clear that being groped by a plastic surgeon in the back of what was frankly a very unimpressive car for a limousine was not what she considered fun 'To be honest, these balls remind me rather too much of my ex-husband and he's someone better left forgotten' she added, watching his face fall at the mention of her past. While she did her best to portray herself as someone utterly unattached to anything or anyone that might compromise her, sometimes it was necessary to remind them that she wasn't merely an object who existed purely for their professional and aesthetic gratification. She hadn't reminded Michael of that fact nearly often enough and things between them had soured very quickly.

'If you'd prefer we could give it a miss' he offered graciously, leaning forward and tapping on the window that divided them from the driver, ready to instruct him to turn around and take them elsewhere, despite the fact that they were pulling up to the venue and it would be abundantly clear that they had came, seen and left. It would take a spectacularly large donation to the charity from both of them to ease the social guilt that would arise from such a faux pas and she suspected that it would never quite be forgotten so she replied to his offer by swinging long legs from the car and waving a greeting to their boss as Joshua climbed from the other door and rushed around to help her to her feet.

'Perhaps we'll leave early' she told him, tracing one hand down his chest in a gesture that appeared innocent but which they were both aware was anything but 'a couple of drinks, a few canapés and out' she added with a sultry smile before turning to her boss, giving a man a view of her cleavage that made him wheeze in a manner that made her fear for his heart 'good evening Howard. Shall we go inside?'

'Have you had enough yet?' Joshua was at her side, one arm weaving around her waist in a gesture that made her spin pointedly away from him on her high heels and flash him a glare 'I have a rather nice bottle of vintage champagne in the fridge'

'In the fridge' she murmured thoughtfully 'well _someone's _confident that they'll be taking someone home tonight. Out of interest, if I said no what would you do?'

'Go home and drink the champagne alone to soothe my broken heart' he replied, clutching his chest dramatically to illustrate his point 'but I really don't want tonight to end that way and I don't think you do either'

'Confident' she repeated with a smile playing across her lips as she considered his proposition. Twenty-four hours earlier she wouldn't even have given his offer a second thought before refusing but twenty-four hours earlier she believed that the man who still occupied her thoughts and heart felt the same way about her. In the light of her newfound uncertainty Joshua suddenly seemed considerably more attractive 'I suppose a drink wouldn't hurt' she conceded, finally allowing him to weave an arm around her and lead her from the hotel, knowing precisely how the evening would end.


End file.
